


Solstice

by thedevilchicken



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Fantasy, Festivals, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, M/M, Minor Injuries, Swords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:06:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25917064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Peleus is the former king of Arentis, exiled for his murder of the old high priest who wished to plunge the country into war. He's been gone for nine years but as the winter solstice nears, he finds himself drawing ever closer to the border that he's not allowed to cross.Hofsfell sits twenty miles from that border, and in town is the master swordsmith, responsible for all the most coveted of weapons, just like his father and his grandfather before him. Peleus carries a Hofsfell sword; he knows exactly what they're worth.When a group of men attempt to extort Kaspar, the swordsmith, Peleus is hired to keep him safe. He gets rather more than he bargained for.
Relationships: Exiled King/Lowborn Man He Has Decided To Protect, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 9
Kudos: 134
Collections: Original Works Opportunity 2020





	Solstice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Plaid_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/gifts).



He's not completely sure why he's going back to Hofsfell, but that's precisely what he's doing. 

The much less boneheaded option would be to ride in the opposite direction, or at least southeast instead of northeast; he hasn't been to Tanda since before he was exiled, but he knows they'll always have work for a man of his talents. He was trained to fight from a very early age, and he's always had a flair for it. Chances are he'd fit in well, even if he's never been fond of the warmer climates. 

Or, he could go southwest. Twenty miles and he'd ben over the border in the duchy of Farandal. Fifty miles more and he'd reach the river Fyth and if he followed its winding course through the hills and valleys, past the orchards and the vineyards standing bare in the winter snow, past the great lake where he used to swim in the summers thirty years ago when he was still a child, in a hundred miles he'd reach the holy city. 

He'd like to see the city again, he thinks, as he's riding away from it. He remembers how the white stone of the castle walls seemed to shine in the early morning sun and the bells from the high temple would ring out when the sun was at its highest and it was time for them to pray. He remembers the people, how the chatter in the streets would stop with the ringing of the bells and for a moment, they'd put one hand over their heart and look up to the sky. 

You can always tell an Arentian that way, he thinks; at noon, they look up, because that's the time of day when their god passes over them. Except on the night of the winter solstice, but that's another thing entirely. 

He'd like to go back to the holy city, where he grew up, but he can't. He'd like to go anywhere else in the world. But he's making his way back to Hofsfell. 

He supposes it's time to face the music. 

\---

The morning he met Kaspar, about three weeks ago no, he'd been away from home for a few days short of nine full years. 

He hadn't exactly been keeping count of it - he's not the sort who keeps notches on his walking stick for every day that passes or it would've broken into splinters years ago - but preparations for the winter solstice were still going on all through the town. Folk had been so intent on stringing the traditional red garlands in great zigzags across the narrow streets, house to house, above the butchers and bakers, that they'd barely even noticed his arrival a few days prior. His arrival was usually noticed, and usually remarked upon, so it had made a pleasant if somewhat disconcerting change. 

The day they met, he'd been away from home a few days short of nine years and in Hofsfell for less than half a week. He'd been watching solstice preparations from a table by the boarding house window more or less nonstop since he'd arrived, while other guests swept in and out, on their way home for the festival. He wasn't welcome in his own home so he supposed a boarding house in the small principality that bordered his country was good enough; after all, with every step he'd taken back toward Arentis, he'd told himself he wasn't going home. Not because he didn't miss it, because he missed it every day, but because his return wouldn't have been welcome. He'd already killed one priest, all those years ago, and he didn't fancy slaying his way through a detachment of the temple's holy paladins just to see the banners of his house flying from the ramparts of the citadel. 

He'd had his reasons, after all: like how the mad old high priest had tried to send his army back to war the day they'd celebrated their return from the last one, not that that counted for much in Arentian law. He was the only one who could do it, so wary were the high priest's guards, and he'd known the consequences; he'd known that he'd be exiled, or worse, and he'd done it anyway, because he'd seen the way his men's hearts sank at the thought of picking up their bloody swords again so fucking soon. His consolation was the new high priest had not called another holy war since taking office. 

He was tracing a five-pointed star on the table that morning with one fingertip he'd dipped and re-dipped in his beer - breakfast of champions it wasn't, but he'd got used to it on the road - when the boarding house's landlady approached. 

"I might have a job for you," she told him, as she pulled a chair out from the table and then sat down across from him. Given Peleus' feet had been resting on it fairly solidly, the swift removal and his feet's dive for the floor made him sit up straight. 

"And what makes you think I'm looking for work?" he replied. 

She leaned back. She crossed her arms over her chest and eyed carefully him across the worn old table - worn but cared for, which was the same as everything in the place, he'd realised. Considering how many kings and queens, sorcerers and priests and lords of war had attempted to look at him the way that she was doing at that moment, the fact that she made him feel an iota of self-consciousness was quite impressive, he thought. Or else he'd just been away from home for far too long. 

"You've a light purse for such a big man," she said, "And I don't imagine that horse of yours can feed itself. If you're not looking for work now, you soon will be." 

He laughed. He couldn't fault her logic; she'd seen his purse when he'd paid his room and board, and he supposed he did eat more than most men - he stood a clear head taller and a full hand broader than all but the tallest men he ever met, and even then he was usually the largest man in any given room. The men of his family were like that, and his father had chosen his mother for her height as much as her lineage, though they'd come to love each other for their own sakes after. But the fact remained that Peleus was a large man and he'd felt disinclined to take the kind of work he'd been offered on his way back from Torenada. He'd been many things over the years - mercenary, bodyguard, once upon a time a king - and he'd killed men, yes, but he was not a common cutthroat. He'd kept his pride, perhaps, but it hadn't helped his purse.

"You might be right," he admitted. "But this doesn't strike me as the kind of town requiring the services of sellswords and besides which..." He learned forward on the table, one clothed elbow in the beery mess or a star he'd made but he was fairly sure the shirt had seen worse. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I don't think you can afford me."

She clucked her tongue. "Nonsense," she said. "Beggars can't be choosers." And he had to admit he could see her point, because it wasn't like his coin would last forever and he didn't see a queue of people forming who hoped to avail themselves of his services. Usually, in towns like Hofsfell, they needed farmhands more than they needed mercenaries. 

"Then you'd best tell me what it is that I can do for you," he said. 

So, quite swiftly, she did exactly that. She was forthright and to the point, which he appreciated. 

She said her brother was a swordsmith, _the_ swordsmith - he'd seen her son on his way there, once or twice, early in the morning, and asked where he was going to in such a rush, so the fact of it didn't come as a surprise. Her brother, the swordsmith, the one who made all the swords for the highest nobles in almost every land Peleus knew, was having trouble with a customer who'd threatened him. They'd be coming back that morning for the finished sword in exchange for less than half the promised coin or else they'd kill him, take the sword, and consider their debt paid. Peleus had known their type before and he'd never been fond. And he wouldn't have wanted to give up his own Hofsfell sword - the one he'd had for his coronation - for anything in the whole fucking world.

"Keep him safe till they've paid him what he's owed and your room's free for the duration," she said. 

"Food and drink?" 

"Don't push your luck." 

He laughed and told her, "Fine, but he'd best be a bloody good brother."

She shrugged. "Fair to middling," she told him, as she stood back up. "But he's the only one I've got."

He made his way over to the swordsmith's workshop once he'd had his breakfast, trudging up the slight incline toward the edge of town. He'd seen the place on his way in, four days earlier - he'd been there before, as it happened, with his father, years before, to collect his own first sword. 

There were three men in the workshop when he stepped up to the door, not counting his landlady's son who'd evidently been shut inside the storeroom and was banging merry hell on the thick wooden door. Two men held the swordsmith down by his shoulders so he couldn't stand up from his chair and the third villain had a long knife pressed to the swordsmith's throat; Peleus could see a steady trickle of blood coming from it, not deep enough to cause lasting harm but that didn't mean an ounce more pressure wouldn't do the job. And, standing at the workshop door, he coughed. They turned. 

"How about you pick on someone who's armed, at least?" he said, leaning there against the workshop's wide, open door frame. It was like a pair of barn doors, folded back so the heat of the forge wouldn't make the place unbearable, and it was just like a set of scoundrels to leave the doors open so anyone could see. And when they looked up at him, he slipped one hand down to the hilt of his sword and gave the pommel an obvious pat. The swordsmith looked, too.

There was a pause wherein he and the three extortioners all seemingly weighed up the situation simultaneously. One was larger than the other two, stronger, and likely preferred to rely on that strength when it came to a fight, which would be no good to him whatsoever against a man of Peleus' size. The second seemed young and uncertain, kept glancing at the third for some clue to their next move - he was probably the second's nephew or some other relation, or else a new recruit who was anxious to please but had little real experience. The third man had the bloody knife in his hand and the crest of the Duke of Farandal on his tunic; he wasn't the duke, however, even if he did carry himself well and had a sharpness to his eye that spoke to some level of intelligence beyond the knife. 

Peleus weighed the three and concluded he could take them - he'd kill the leader first, with the long dagger in his hand, then beat the large one down. The younger one he'd send back to Farandal without the sword, but in the end he didn't have to. The leader huffed, whipped the edge of the blade across the swordsmith's right palm, wiped the blood off against the swordsmith's tunic, then waved his men to the door. 

"Don't think you've seen the last of us," he told the swordsmith. "We'll have that sword from you, one way or another." He gestured at his bleeding hand with the point of his knife. "That's just the start if you don't cooperate, you mark my words." Then they disappeared into the street, into the snow that had started falling again, and Peleus turned to the somewhat bewildered swordsmith. 

"Who the fuck are you?" the swordsmith asked, while he was pressing his bloody hand against his own tunic, like that was going to help and not just get the wound infected. 

"Your sister sent me," Peleus replied, and went to open the storeroom door. He sent the lad to report to his mother while the swordsmith sat and scowled, then he went to him, dropped into a crouch and took his hand and peered at the wound. 

"You know, they'll just come back again," the swordsmith said. 

"Of course they will." 

"Then you're just delaying the inevitable, right?"

Peleus shrugged. "I've only just eaten," he said. "Fighting on a full stomach gives me indigestion." He looked up at him, his hand still in both of his. "This needs stitches. And water. And something about twenty times cleaner than your tunic to put on it." He raised his eyebrows. "Do you have anything like that?"

"Upstairs." 

So, they went upstairs. The swordsmith lived above his workshop, it seemed, and he took Peleus into his bedroom; there was a bowl on the dresser with a jug of cold water that might have been warm earlier that morning, and in a drawer nearby there were clean linen bandages and a needle and thread. 

"You know, you don't have to do this," the swordsmith said, as Peleus wrapped a bandage around his hand. He'd already cleaned and stitched the wound, the way he'd done and had done in return so many times once battles had been won, but he couldn't have called this a battle; what this was was three Arentian men bullying the master swordsmith into giving them their lord's new sword for a highly discounted price. 

"I think I might be contractually obligated, actually," Peleus replied. He tied off the bandage and turned to wash the blood off his fingers - it wasn't exactly a new phenomenon for him. "Your sister's giving me my room for free for looking after you. I think stitching wounds probably falls under the general spirit of the thing." Then he toweled his hands dry and turned to lean back against the dresser. 

He looked at him, sitting there. It was honestly the first good look he'd had the chance to get, with all the drama and the blood - he'd had a general idea of him as a man in his thirties, fair hair, light eyes, but there was more to him than that. His blonde hair was thick and likely long but scraped back from his face and pinned back in a bun at the crown of his head with what looked like a steel rod from the forge downstairs. He had both sleeves rolled up to his elbows and Peleus could see scars from burns and cuts over his hands and forearms - judging from the way that some were faded almost white with age, chances were that he'd been forging swords for the better part of all his life. He was broad through the shoulders and thick through the arms like you'd expect from a man who spent his days at an anvil. And he must have been the son of the swordsmith he'd met there all those years ago, Peleus supposed; they'd been a long line of swordsmiths, father to son, or to nephew or niece, for generations - rather like his own line, Peleus thought.

He was a handsome man, all in all - a little ruddy, a little worn, but weren't they all? And when he stood himself up, he was a good height but not what anyone would have called exceptionally tall. He stood awkwardly, though; there was a sturdy metal brace at his left knee held in place with thick leather straps just above and below.

"You're staring," the swordsmith said, and when Peleus glanced back up at his face, he patted his left knee and smiled wryly. "Don't worry, I'm used to it. It's an old injury. Surprising the damage an unsteady anvil and a fucking liability of an apprentice can do for you." 

"Your sister's son?" Peleus asked. 

The swordsmith shrugged and started for the door. He had an awkward gait but something about it said he'd long since got used to it, and Peleus followed him back down the stairs. 

"No, that one actually does as he's told most of the time," he replied. "I couldn't trust the last one after he'd fucked up my leg. Last in a long list of times he didn't listen. Had to let him go." He paused by the door into the workshop and frowned up at him. "You never did tell me your name."

"It's Peleus."

The swordsmith raised his eyebrows. "Like the old king?" 

He nodded. The swordsmith made a face. 

"I'm a Peleus, too," he said. "Peleus Kaspar Ivarsson. It was all the rage back then, naming a son after the king. You get a whole goddamn slew of them after a birth or a death or a coronation. The kid's a _Theseus_ after the new one, born the day he got his crown, though I've got to say I thought Sigrid knew better." He turned away and started walking again. "Anyway, everyone calls him Nils and everyone calls me Kaspar. Is that what your parents did, too? Named you after the king?"

Peleus gritted his teeth. "Yes," he said, through them, though it sounded odd. And he supposed it wasn't really a lie; he'd been named after _a_ king, after all, even if that king had been his grandfather, Peleus IV of Arentis. He hadn't known him for long, really - he'd gone away on one of the high priest's crusades when Peleus had still been only five or six years old, and died in Torenada on the way back from the war. By the time the army had carried what was left of him home to Arentis, he hadn't looked like his grandfather at all. Now, he wonders if he'd recognise his sister's son who took the throne that he vacated, Theseus II, or if he's grown into a man he doesn't know. He doesn't regret what he did, because he did what he did to save his country from another holy war at the high priest's instigation and Theseus had always been intended as the next in line - if Peleus had stayed, he'd have married a man, as that's where his preference has always been. He doesn't regret what he did, but he does regret he didn't get to see his nephew crowned.

The swordsmith - Kaspar - sat down at a workbench, on a high stool that took his weight off his leg, and set his stitched-up hand down on the worktop. He scowled. "How am I meant to work with this?" 

"You have an apprentice, don't you?" Peleus replied. 

Kaspar gave him a withering look. "He's nine," he said. "My cock's thicker than his arm. He might be able to hammer out a pretty little ornamental dagger but I'm making a sword." 

Peleus crossed his arms over his chest. "Then what about me?" he said. 

"What _about_ you?"

"I've got arms. I can use a hammer." 

"So you're a swordsmith as well as a healer?" 

Peleus snorted. "Of course I'm not. I've broken a hundred times more swords than I've made." 

"Then what am I meant to do with you?"

Peleus lifted both arms and struck a somewhat sarcastic pose to show off the bulk of muscle in his arms; Kaspar smiled, apparently more amused than he was irritated by the whole affair. 

"I'll be your right hand," Peleus said. "You've still got your left."

"Falls under the contractual obligation, does it?" 

Peleus laughed. Kaspar grinned and shook his head. And that was that. That was the start of it. 

\---

For the rest of that first morning, all Kaspar had him do was scrub blood off the floor while he sat on his stool and watched. Peleus might have been a king, once upon a time, but he wasn't above scrubbing; he left his sword propped up in a corner and got down on his knees on the floor of Kaspar's workshop, and he cleaned the blood away as best he could.

At noon, the temple bell sounded; Peleus looked up, though it was more from habit than belief, and Kaspar eyed him curiously. 

"Religious man?" he asked, and Peleus shrugged. 

"I'm not not, I suppose," he replied. "Been a while since I went to a service." 

"We get a lot of Arentians round here," Kaspar went on. "Not many around solstice, though. They usually go home." 

Peleus smiled wryly. "Well, not all of us have a home to go to," he said. "I was in Sato last solstice, and Torenada the one before."

"I hear the Torenadans know how to celebrate."

Peleus snorted. "They do. I drank so much winter wine I thought I might actually die." 

Then Kaspar had him wash his hands and dust off his knees and after some food - not quite stale bread and strong cheese washed down with wine mixed with water that was nothing like he'd had that night in Torenada. Then he handed him his hammer. 

It was hot work. Kaspar heated the metal and held it to the anvil's face and Peleus put the hammer to it, taking Kaspar's instruction for precisely how to do it. He put too much force into his swings at first, like he was trying to beat the red-hot ingot straight in two, and Kaspar laughed and nudged his back and told him, "You're going to break the fucking anvil, you keep going at it like that." Then he did it too lightly, almost on purpose, until Kaspar tutted mock-disapprovingly, leaned in against his back and said, "Look, if you're just going to tickle it like that, you could just tickle me instead. You'd get no fucking work done but you wouldn't be ruining my steel." 

The teasing tone of his voice had something darker underneath it and, for a second, that tone sent a shiver of interest straight down between Peleus' thighs. 

"You know, I don't think that's what your sister's paying me for," he said, and Kaspar laughed. 

"I don't suppose she is," he replied, with a smile. "More's the pity." 

Then he took the hammer from him. He swung it with his left hand, demonstrating the correct amount of force, then handed it back. 

"You can do that with your left hand and you still need me?" Peleus asked. 

"I do that with my left hand more than five or six times running and I'll fuck up my back as well as my hand," Kaspar replied, then he picked up the steel in his tongs again. "Now, I know I'm an exciting distraction but concentrate." 

He concentrated. He did not, however, get the knack of it; by the time the sun had begun to set in the late afternoon, they'd made absolutely no progress, but Kaspar somehow didn't seem perturbed; he just slapped Peleus between his shoulderblades with his good left hand and told him, "I think maybe I'll find another use for my right hand tomorrow. Shall we say just after dawn?"

They said just after dawn. They met just after dawn. And what Kaspar had in mind definitely didn't involve a hammer or tongs; he was waiting upstairs with a bowl of lightly steaming water and a razor on the dresser. 

"So, you trust me with this?" Peleus asked, as he picked the razor up. It was a neat design, with a blade that folded back into a handle made of something that looked a lot like Tandan blackwood, and when he tested the edge against his thumb it was almost sharp enough that he wondered if it even needed stropping. He did so, though, though it didn't look like there was anything he could use for the purpose, so he unbuckled his own belt and used the leather while Kaspar watched with an easy, amused smile. 

"Well, you did save my life yesterday," he replied. "I don't think I'm annoying enough that you'd have changed your mind overnight, so I can probably trust you to shave me." 

He looked up at Peleus from his chair, looked down at the razor in his hand, and nodded. "I suppose I do trust you," he said, more serious this time. "Odd. Hmm." Then he closed his eyes and stretched out his throat, and Peleus got to work. 

In point of fact, Kaspar was _not_ annoying enough for Peleus to have changed his mind about keeping him alive. He'd lain awake in his bed in the boarding house, listening to travellers coming and going downstairs, while he'd thought back over his odd day with one arm tucked up underneath his head; his other hand had strayed down idly as he'd thought about the way that Kaspar teased him, his voice, the bulk of his body, the way he hadn't flinched when he'd sewn his hand. He'd thought about that smile that made his light eyes shine and how his skin looked in the bright orange flames of the forge, and honestly, it had been a while since his fantasies had had any particular direction to them but that night? He'd wrapped his right hand around his cock and squeezed there, thinking about Kaspar Ivarsson's sharp eyes and sharp tongue and what other things his mouth might do for him. 

Peleus has always had steady hands, and he'd shaved himself - and other men - a multitude of times over the years. He shaved Kaspar then; he lathered the soap then spread it over his jaw, and then drew the razor through it slowly. Kaspar let him move his head this way and that with a touch of his fingertips under his jaw and every now and then he swallowed, with a noticeable bob of his throat. His skin was warm and he was gripping the arms of the chair where he was sitting almost tightly enough that Peleus worried for the stitches in his hand, and when he was done, and he'd splashed Kaspar's face with water and he passed him the towel to dry himself off, it turned out he'd been right to: there was blood against the bandage. He sighed and took his hand and saw to it while Kaspar watched him. He'd been right the day before: he was an exciting distraction. 

For the rest of the day, Kaspar had jobs for him that didn't involve shaving his face or hammering steel into a rather unbecoming lump. He fetched and boiled water. He stitched a glove that needed repair. He helped him sharpen some old tools and put a good edge on a mostly finished sword that wasn't, he assured him, the one destined for the Duke of Farandal - he didn't tell him where it was, and Peleus didn't ask, but he understood he'd hidden it so the duke's squad of scoundrels couldn't simply steal if from him. And, as they worked, Peleus couldn't help but be aware of how close Kaspar stood to him, how his left hand brushed his shoulders as he passed him though the space was wide enough that they needn't have touched at all, and from time to time he'd lean in closer than he needed to check in on his progress. 

"Are you flirting with me?" Peleus asked, at the end of the day, as he was readying himself to leave, and Kaspar laughed at him from his stool across the room. 

"I thought that was obvious," he replied. "Maybe I'm losing my touch." Then he leaned forward on his elbows on the worktop, sighed and let his face take a turn for the serious. "Look, if you want me to stop, I'll stop," he said. "Sigrid tells me sometimes I go too far, so just say the word." 

Peleus looked at him across the room, one hand on the hilt of his sword. It might have been simpler if he'd asked him to stop, and he knew that then - he wasn't a good flirt himself and sometimes the social customs of the different places that he'd visited over the years all blended in his head until he couldn't quite recall which one was which and what meant what. With Kaspar there in Hofsfell, in the borderlands, he had no idea where he stood, only that he had an idea where he wanted to.

"If flirting's all it is then yes, you should stop," he said, and Kaspar nodded. Peleus left.

So that was that, he thought; flirtation over. He could live with the disappointment.

\---

Of course, the following day, the flirtation did not stop. 

When Peleus arrived, through the streets filled with red garlands - they go up a fortnight in advance of the solstice night and come down two weeks after, he went in through the workshop door and found Kaspar sitting there behind his workbench, waiting. There was a flush in his cheeks that Peleus could see even before he crossed the room; when he did cross the room, he understood why. Behind the bench, Kaspar's thick trousers were pushed down to his knees. His cock was jutting up erect, with the tip that peeked out past his foreskin just as flushed as both his cheeks were. 

"Is that something you use your right hand for?" Peleus asked, as he eyed him. There was a shining bead of moisture there, collecting at the tip, and he found he'd have liked to have dipped his head down to lick it away, but he pulled his gaze back up to Kaspar's face. 

"I get cramp when I use my left," Kaspar replied. He smiled faintly. "I thought I'd use my right." And his eyes dropped down to Peleus' big right hand. It wasn't subtle, but he appreciated that; he'd offered to be his right hand, after all. 

He stepped behind him, close, so close his chest pressed up against the length of Kaspar's back. He pressed his left hand lightly against Kaspar's sternum and held him steady. Then he ran his right hand down between his thighs, and caught his cock. He was hot in his hand, and heavy, and thick - he hadn't been kidding about that, it turned out. And sighed and Peleus first licked his own palm then began to stroke; he leaned back against his chest and let his head drop back and, as Peleus ran his thumb over the moisture at his tip, the doors burst open. When Peleus abruptly stepped away, Kaspar toppled off the stool; honestly, as the duke's brutes stormed in, the same three as before, the ground behind the workbench was probably the best place for him. 

"I thought I told you to leave," Peleus said, with one hand on his sword that he hadn't, as yet, removed for work, such as his day's work had turned out to be. 

"You told us to pick on someone who was armed," the leader said. "You're armed. I thought we'd pick on you _then_ pick on him, if he's not got the sword for us. The duke's not a patient man." 

Actually, from what Peleus recalled, the Duke of Farandal was a very patient man, and a very good man, and he couldn't quite imagine him having any part in this particular farce. He didn't say so, however - he just stepped forward, quickly, so quickly they didn't quite have time to respond, and broke the big one's nose with a well-timed fist against his face, then lifted his knee up into the younger one's belly. Both went down with a groan and a clatter, and then, when the leader looked at Peleus with his hand on his sword and his men's blood on his sword hand, he ordered them both out. They went, and Peleus watched them, dripping a trail of blood in the snow. 

When he closed the door and turned back to Kaspar, he was standing there with his trousers round his knees and his cock, somehow, for some reason, perhaps even harder than before. He had a dark look on his face like he wasn't sure if he wanted to throw him out after then or eat him alive, so Peleus decided for him; afterwards, he might have blamed the way the fight had got his blood up, though he'd long since stopped feeling fights in quite that way. But, he went across the room and went down on his knees and without a second's hesitation, he took Kaspar's thick cock into his mouth. He held him at his hips when he felt him shift unsteadily, and bobbed his head, and sucked, his fingertips digging in hard as the fingertips of Kaspar's left hand raked over his close-shaved head. He'd had long hair once, longer than Kaspar's, dark and fine and fitting for an Arentian king, but the first thing he'd done when he'd left was shear the whole lot off. He'd been anonymous for years. He didn't even know why he'd given this man his real first name - he was considered a traitor in most places across the world, after all, and he found he didn't want Kaspar to think of him that way.

When Kaspar came, groaning so loudly that it echoed, gripping so hard at his shoulder that it hurt, Peleus pushed his cock so deep he almost gagged and swallowed as best he could around him. He didn't mind the bitter taste in his mouth, or how he had to wipe his mouth on the back of his hand as he pulled back, or how red his lips must have been from dragging up and down his spit-slicked length. He just sat there on his heels and looked up at Kaspar as he sat down heavily on his workbench stool, his cock still out just starting to soften, shining in the firelight. He hadn't done that in more than a year, almost two - he had a vague recollection of some Torenadan tradition that went well with the winter wine, but nothing since. 

"My right hand doesn't usually do _that_ ," Kaspar said. "I don't think I'd leave the bedroom if it did." And Peleus laughed and swatted at his calf with the back of one hand, then he pulled himself back up to his feet. His own cock was throbbing in his trousers, and the bulk of it must have been obvious because Kaspar raised his brows. "I'd offer to help with that, but can't kneel and my left hand's no good," he said, and Peleus gestured vaguely in the air to ward that off. 

"No need," he said. "I'll pass." 

"And if I don't want it to?" 

"Then I'm open to suggestions." 

Ten minutes later, sitting on the workbench with his trousers pulled down and catching at his boot tops, he came with his cock inside Kaspar's hot mouth. He didn't need his left hand, and he didn't need to kneel. Then Kaspar spat into the grate and grinned and, a moment later, kissed him. 

"I didn't realise standing up to bullies had rewards like this," he said, as Peleus was registering the taste of his own come against his lips, not that he minded it. 

"I didn't realise playing bodyguard to swordsmith of Hofsfell had rewards like this," Peleus replied. "Maybe I'd have come here sooner." 

Kaspar chuckled and pulled up his trousers, and Peleus did the same. It had turned out to be a strange solstice period indeed. 

The following day, Peleus returned to the workshop; as Kaspar worked on ornamentation as best he could with his left hand, Peleus tidied up the workshop. Nils, his landlady's son and Kaspar's apprentice, had stopped work just like the majority of artisans, for the festival period, so Peleus was his only help - not that he did much helping. As the day wore on, and Kaspar's left hand cramped, he grumbled until Peleus took his hand in his and rubbed his palm in circles of his thumb. Then Kaspar said, "You know, I can think of another use for those thumbs, right hand." Peleus didn't disbelieve him. 

There was a jar of oil set out for Kaspar's work that he drew closer as he bent down at the waist over the edge of his workbench, and Peleus eyed it, feeling his face flush, as he didn't quite watch Kaspar drop his trousers. He'd helped him wash earlier in the way and couldn't say he was unfamiliar with most parts of Kaspar's body, but when he drew his palms over the back of Kaspar's thighs, as he used his palms to spread his cheeks and expose his hole, he hadn't spent much time familiarising himself with that particular part. Kaspar seemed to want that, though; he nudged the oil towards him, and Peleus dipped his fingers into it. He ran his fingertips against Kaspar's hole, circled it, felt it tense, then pushed inside and felt it tense up harder in response as Kaspar groaned. It didn't take long: Kaspar came from it in minutes, with the angle of Peleus' fingers pushing in precisely the right place to make him tremble and release, and Peleus unbuckled his belt and came against the small of Kaspar's back. He'd have liked more, but was more than happy with what he got. 

Days passed that way. Peleus used his hands or his mouth, teased his hole with the length of his cock sliding over him, let Kaspar do the same and wondered how, precisely, this was getting any work done - of course, no one works at the solstice, so Peleus had to wonder if _work_ was the point of his presence at all. On the second day, the duke's men returned and Peleus sent them away again, bleeding in the snow outside; Kaspar kissed him, hard, against the back of the workshop door. On the fourth day, the duke's men returned while Kaspar was with him, in his room at his sister's house, and left the workshop an almighty mess than the two of them spent hours setting back to rights again. And, on the ninth day, the day of the solstice festival, the door opened on the duke as well as his men. 

"I hear you're refusing to give up my sword," he said, and then caught sight of Peleus, and frowned. "Your highness?"

A few words from Peleus about the situation there at hand and the duke's men attacked; it seemed they'd had no intention of giving up the money they'd been charged with in exchange for their lord's new sword, and once they understood the duke knew what was happening and would in all likelihood discharge them from his service if not have them flogged in the square back in Farandal, they didn't hesitate to try to take his life. Peleus stopped them; he was reluctant to draw his sword, the one that Kaspar's father had made for his own coronation, but he did so, and he put the three of them down there in the workshop. 

And, when it was over, the duke asked that he escort him back to Farandal; he said he would, at least as far as the border into Arentis that he couldn't pass, and left without a word. After all, he'd left his home behind a traitor, and he couldn't look Kaspar in the eye. 

\---

Now, he returns. And he hopes Kaspar can forgive him.

The red garlands are still strung up between the houses, as they will be for another fortnight, symbolic of the solstice night. Hundreds of years ago, thousands, more, the first solstice occurred when their god's human lover died, and the people dipped their sheets in blood and hung them up so when the god passed over in the moonlight he would know they mourned with him. In Hofsfell, the garlands are plaits of linen dyed red and in the camps, at war, Peleus and his men tore strips from their tunics. In the holy city, they're streamers of red satin; from the towers of the temple there, they're dipped in blood like on that first night, and they freeze in the winter chill before they can rot. But Peleus hopes he won't have to mourn like their god did; Kaspar is alive and that's thanks to him. He's known him for such a short, short time, he knows, but it's more than he's felt, or even wanted, in more years than he can count.

He's at the door when he arrives there at the edge of town; he raises up his bandaged hand, and Peleus approaches.

"So, you're named for a king?" Kaspar says, brows arched, as he leans there at the door, arms crossed. 

"Well, I was," he replies. "It's just the king was my grandfather." 

Kaspar welcomes him inside, then slaps him hard across the face; it opens up his stitches, but Peleus suspects that they'll have time to sort that out. He hopes, at least.

"You seem to think I didn't know precisely who you were," Kaspar says, then gestures at the sword Peleus wears on the belt around his waist. "I helped my father make that sword, you idiot. I'd know it anywhere." Then Kaspar laughs and shakes his head and wraps his arms around him, slaps his arse and pulls in toward the stairs. "You know, there's a solstice tradition in Hofsfell," he says, glancing back with a twinkle in his eye. "Do you want me to teach you?" Apparently, the stitches in Kaspar's hand can wait.

Kaspar strips on the way, not quickly but purposefully, his waistcoat then his shirt. In the bedroom, he sits down to take his brace off, but Peleus kneels in front of him and unbuckles the straps with his big hands. He helps him out of his trousers, strips him down to his bare skin, and runs his fingertips over the twisted scars in Kaspar's leg. He's seen some bad breaks in his life, but this must have been bad; from the look of it, something hot followed the anvil, too. And he presses his mouth there, lightly, as Kaspar brushes his fingers over the short stubble over his head.

He doesn't need to be taught their solstice traditions - he knows precisely what he's referring to. Their god's lover died and they show him that they mourn with him with the red garlands in the street, and they show him that they understand by making love behind closed doors. Peleus watches Kaspar stretch out on his bed, with his awkward leg and his burns and his scars and that smile on his face that makes him feel like smiling, too, ridiculous as that might seem under any other circumstances. He watches him reach for some oil with a quirk of his brows and their fingers brush as he passes it to him, and the look on his face says he was planning this for days. It says he's wanted this for days, like Peleus has.

Kaspar's injured leg rests with surprising ease at Peleus' shoulder and he hitches the other one up himself, exposing himself to him completely, without self-consciousness. Peleus rubs his oiled fingers there between his cheeks, watching the way Kaspar's lips part, watching him take a hitching breath that ends up in a small, dark chuckle. He feels him stretch as he presses his fingertips against him, but Kaspar reaches down to catch his wrist and that action tells him all he needs to know; he wants him, now, as the sun's setting outside on solstice day, for solstice night. So he slicks himself, thickly, till he's almost dripping with it, and guides his tip against him. It's been years since he's wanted anyone like this. And when he pushes in, not smoothly, no finesse at all he's so aroused by the look on Kaspar's face and the way his hole pulls tight around him, he wishes he'd come by this way sooner.

Kaspar grips at Peleus' shoulders as he fucks him slowly in the dying light. Kaspar gasps, and wraps his good leg around his waist and pulls him deep so they both groan out loud, then laugh the same breathless laugh before they move on. He has him like that, flushed and warm and slow and wanting, knowing Kaspar doesn't care about the titles that he used to have. There are no priests in the borderlands, after all, because they threw off the yoke of the holy temple centuries ago. They worship in their own way, in _this_ way, and Peleus is glad to be a part of that. 

It doesn't last, but for as long as it lasts Peleus is breathless with his heartbeat throbbing through his veins into his cock as Kaspar reaches down between the two of them to stroke himself. Peleus' hips jerk as Kaspar bares his teeth and hisses in a breath and comes over his hand, against both their skin, and Peleus doesn't need much longer after that - he pushes up onto his knees and fucks him, holding his thighs in tight against his chest, short jerks of his hips that make his muscles strain with pleasure. When he comes, he pushes deep, and he pulls him up, almost straining his back but what's his strength for if not this? He's had enough of fighting for ten lifetimes, after all, and Kaspar's legs around his waist and his arms around his shoulders as they sit there together, that smile on his face... it's not perfect, but it's close. 

It's a few more minutes till they leave the bed, and wipe themselves down, and start to sort their clothes from one another's, while Kaspar occasionally steps back in to tease him - he doesn't mind the way he touches him, and delays him dressing, and Kaspar doesn't mind when he pushes him up against the wall and kisses him till they're both breathless. And then, when they've finally managed to clothe themselves, Kaspar slaps him on the chest with his good hand.

"Come on, _your highness_ ," he says. "Sigrid's cooking. We'll be late." So, when Kaspar leaves the house, he follows close behind.

And though Peleus had told himself he wasn't going home, all the time that he was heading toward Hofsfell, now he wonders how true that really was.

Once the solstice passes, he hopes that he'll find out. There's time yet - it's been nine years since he left Arentis, but he doesn't think that it'll take another nine to find a new place that he's welcome.


End file.
